“Trust Calder. He’ll see she comes to nae harm. I think he’s fallen in love with her.”
“As Gilda has with him. This morning she acquired a horse. She intends to ride beside him when he returns to Dun Bhuird. She’ll willnae know a soul there.” She dug her teeth into her lower lip to stem a burst of resentment she didnae want to feel and settled for saying, “I cannae help but feel that has to be love.”
Abrupt, he said, “She’ll have Calder.”
Ainsel chewed at her lips as if merely to plump them up, when truthfully she wanted to be in Gilda’s shoes, but travelling with Rory, not Calder. “And she’ll know Rory Farquharson.”
She had hardly finished speaking when Rory gripped her by the chin, his fingers digging into the edge of her jaw so hard it hurt, and as he began to speak his voice was hard, rough edged. “Gilda will ne’er know me the way ye do—nae woman will.” That’s when she realised that Rory was hurting too.“
Aye, they were both hurting, but there was naught to be done about the pain nae matter how much they wanted to throw their sense of caution to the winds and let danger take them where it may as long as they were together. In the distance they heard shouts and screams a dull thump of steel upon wood and sharper, the clash of steel meeting then sliding across steel.
The battle had begun, and soon she and Rory would be in the thick of it.
There was nae hiding, not if they wanted to escape the flames. Two of the Irish boats were alight and the others trying to avoid them as Calder and the others on the boat with him were attempting to ward them off. They were on the sharp ends of three long oars, two to an oar, putting their backs into it, with muscle, bone and desperation shoving on the end of the oars, fending off the burning Irish vessel. The plan had worked, mayhap too well. They were in the hands of the gods, and whau could claim to know what they wanted, or when they would change their minds and set all agley?
Calder wanted to groan at the horrendous crack and splintering sound that came frae his right. One of the biggest men was on the end of that oar but, like Calder, he had discovered that against the weight of a whole laden boat, the force of two men was a pitiful thing.
“Get ready, Gilda,” he shouted, though in his own ears it sounded like a shriek as with one last heave his oar shattered.
“I’m with ye, Calder,” Gilda’s voice came to him, thin and urgent as he drew his sword, nae time for his shield. He could hear Gilda screaming, banging hard the ring of metal on wood as he leapt up in the bow.
This had to be what hell was like: flames, smoke and demons rising out of them shouting, “Death to the Norsemen! Die! Die! Die!” That was the moment the Irish boat rammed theirs and a bearded monster with a dearth of teeth lunged at him, tangles of hair lifting into the air, dark against the red behind him as he sailed across the gap onto Calder’s sword.
Others took the same road out of this world, dead or drowned as they sank under the water. Calder braced himself to meet the next assault as he heard Gilda’s screams. His heart sprang into his throat, the instinct to protect the woman he loved first and foremost in his thoughts. He turned in time to see Gilda thrust the metal edge of her shield in her opponent’s throat.
Reason enough for him not to catch sight of the warrior whau came up on his right side, leaping frae one bow to another. He heard the thump of feet near the dragonhead prow and turned, slashing out with his sword at the hairy bare legs above the crossed bindings, slicing into the knee. “God’s blood,” he yelped as, bent o’er the side, he felt the Irishman’s steel slide into his ribs below his armpit.
“Gilda-a-a,” her name the last word to slide o’er his lips as he fell after the Irishman.
He hit the water, the salt taste of it filling his mouth, his nose. Pain swamped him as he tried to swim, as though the sea filled his chest through the wound in his side. His plaid bubbled up around his waist, air and water held by his belt. Calder opened his fist and let the sword drop frae his fingers, let it sink to the bottom, for steel couldnae float; it could only kill.
Kill him if he held onto its weight.
He felt the sough and sigh of the waves pulling him away frae the gap betwixt the boats and he used his guid arm to propel himself away frae the gap. Away frae the beach…
The air o’er-head was filled with sparks, red stars flying into the dark night sky … peaceful but not for long. He could see flames eat the sails and climb up the mast. Hear the death throes of a dying boat as the hull burned away and let water rush in.
Afterwards there was naught but the mast toppling toward his head and the tide pulling him out into the Ness.
Chapter 17
Boats were breaking up near the shore, two or more burnt down to the waterline. Olaf’s dragon-boat had fulfilled its purpose, even if it wasnae to take the auld Jarl to Walhalla. For them all, it was about saving as many inhabitants of the settlement by the Ness as they could manage.
“They’re coming. Get ready.” Rory’s urgent whisper cut through the air around them, rising o’er the rustle of the heather and other vegetation they lay amongst. He pushed onto his knees, held out a hand and pulled her close. Fingers entwined and forearms aligned. “This is it, lass, Ainsel and Rory together as it should be. What say ye?”
Ainsel leaned closer. He could feel her warmth; taste her sweet breath as softly, quietly she said, “Aye, the two of us together.” It felt like a promise, but there was nae time to confirm it as such. Nae sense in dying together for the sake of a kiss when they could be fighting side by side, shields locked to fend off the enemy. The celebration of their victory and confirmation of their promise could come later as they lay in bed, for he had nae doubt they would beat these Irish. The invaders were distressed frae the fire and the smoke, dragged down by wet clothes, and would be easily conquered, for he and Ainsel had right on their side.
All of that aside, he was coming round to the thought that mayhap Ghillie hadnae been so far off the mark. All would be well at Caithness—eventually. The qualification being his own; confirmation that he was his father’s son, rebel or not.
And so it began with Finn yelling out a warning, a roar of the triumph her brother expected to wreak on the enemy, and rang with the delight he would take in making that true with a winning stance for the men of Caithness.
In the end they—he and Ainsel—were back to back, he taking out any Irishmen climbing up the sandy bank, hands gripping the heather to hoist themselves upward, panting and unprepared to meet Rory towering o’er them at the top. Ainsel, the woman he had decided owned his soul and heart, took care of the stragglers; together they made a guid partnership. Their blades were well bloodied and their shields battered, but they were still standing as night ended and the sun climbed up frae behind the hills and out of the water at the end of the Ness.
The solstice was o’er.
The Gathering done for yet another year.
Rory looked at Ainsel and, though their bodies weaved frae the waist up, the result of exhaustion, at last they were able to stand still, short breaths scraping the inside of their throats as they looked around them at the carnage of battle. Men fallen among the heather, faces frozen in the rictus of death and coated with blood and sand and mouths open as if still searching for that last gasp of air. It had been a terrible night, one that should act as a warning to those with eyes bigger than their bellies when it came to land, for that’s why most had come sailing up the Ness, they coveted the land that Olaf’s ancestors—aye and his own—had sailed to frae the North and settled many a long year ago.
What had become of the Irish Chieftain seeking revenge because Nils stole his wife? Rory had not seen nor heard aught of anyone claiming to be a leader. Mayhap Ainsel’s brother Finn would have an answer. He had nae doubts that Finn had made it through, survived the bloody struggle. He had heard his shouts o’er the metallic clash of swords along with the deeper clunk of steel hitting against wood. His own shield was designed with round bosses that the blades could do naught but slide
off.
As he watched, Ainsel’s shoulders began to droop. Her mouth tightened as she stared at the body lying at her feet. Without his helm, he looked younger than Ghillie, whau had barely reached manhood. “What a waste. This is some mother’s son.” Her wee pointed chin jutting, hardening, she pushed the toe of her boot under his corpse and sent the lad’s body tumbling down the bank. “Young fool. He should ne’er have come here.” She let loose a long sigh. “And look at all the work—the bonfire has burned to ashes on the sand. It will take a mountain of wood to send all this lot on their way.” Worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, she pulled off the wee helm that must have been specially made to fit her and tossed it aside, then shook her head, enabling her hair to flow about her shoulders, burnished by the glow of sunrise. She looked so beautiful, far o’er grand for Rory, yet he couldnae stop his arm frae reaching out for her, wanting to claim her.
That’s when he saw the tears streaming unabated down her cheeks. Slipping his arm around her, tucking her close to his side, still armed, still able to protect with his shield beneath his other arm and sword in that hand. “Nae lass,” he hushed her, patting one shoulder. “It’s all o’er. We won as I said we would.”
“That’s not why I’m weeping. I sent that young lad rolling down the bank. I’m probably the one that killed him, and I did both with nae thought as to how his mother will feel when she gets news of his death. One day that might be Axel, pushed aside as if he was nae more than rubbish that needed to be got rid of.”
“Nae, nae lass, dinnae take on so. That will ne’er happen to Axel. I will teach him to fight, to defend himself against all odds so that will ne’er e’er happen to him. I’ll treat him like a father. We’ll be a family; ye have my promise on it.”
Women were a puzzle. Here was he all but promising to marry her and Ainsel was sobbing fit to burst. He would ne’er understand her, but that didnae mean he wasnae going to try.
Ghillie could hear shouts of cheers in the distance. Soon the Caithness inhabitants would return, ready to celebrate, and there was naught he could do to prevent them. The Great Hall was filled with Irish cutthroats, Nhaimeth would have called them, whereas Ghillie would call them cunning.
The Irish Chieftain had come o’er the hill and into the settlement frae behind while all the able-bodied men were wasting their lives on the beach.
He wished he could say he hadnae expected some sort of surprise. He had, but it hadnae been this one. Heimdall had come back to him filled with excitement o’er something he had seen since he flew out frae Caithness on the morning of the solstice. The raven had come back with his eyes bright, and his head cocked as he sat on Ghillie’s shoulder, black feathers glinting red frae the logs burning all night in the fire-pit. Ghillie had sat with Olaf in the hope of taking his mind away frae the stir that had started close to the beach.
Then a wounded Norseman had come into the hall, soaked with seawater, his arm bleeding and hanging uselessly by his side, sliced near clean through, he told them, “We’ve ta’en out two or their boats, though they didnae bring many, and one of our’n was rammed and men lost. That’s when I got this.” He pointed to his arm. “Strap me up with my shield attached to it and I’ll gang back out there and do my duty.”
Olaf wouldnae hear of it, he sent one the aulder woman off with instructions to tend to the man. When eventually he re-entered the Great Hall, he was still wielding a sword in his guid arm and boasting of his ability to go back and fight.
The woman whau had looked after him returned some moments later carrying a seemingly well contented Axel in her arms. She staggered across to Olaf’s chair as if the bairn was o’er heavy for her and, as if it were their custom, the bairn and his great-grandfather opened their arms in unison. Frae the smiles on both their faces it didnae take much to believe that the Jarl was easily cozened by his great-grandson.
That’s when Heimdall flew up frae his shoulder, releasing piercing squawks as he flew up into the rafters, hiding in the dark corners at the end of the crossbeams. That’s when the doors were thrown open and the MacLoughlin, the Irish Chieftain, walked into the Great Hall. Stout and bearded, the Irishman was still a commanding figure and, wide-eyed, Ghillie sucked in a deep breath to help take it all in. Aye, he had expected the invasion, just not this aspect of the invasion. Had he been too caught up in his first real battle to read the signals Heimdall had been sending him.
Pushing Axel into Ghillie’s arms he hissed, “Whist off to the back of the hall afore yer noticed. Give him to Werna. She’ll be in the kitchen.” And to take the Irish Chieftain’s attention onto himself, Olaf stood in front of Ghillie as he slipped away, the auld Jarl shook his heavy gnarled stick in one hand, raised it high. “What stranger dare enter my hall without ceremony or even a wee pretence of courtesy.”
“Sit down auld man. All yer bluster is of nae use. I ken yer naught but a figurehead sitting upon high, pretending, while out there yer grandson is standing up for ye, since yer not capable of doing it yerself. If ye were my grandfather, ye would have been dead long ago.” He sauntered the width of the Great Hall, eyes taking in aught that might smack of wealth, until he reached Olaf and, with the flat of his hand, sent the auld Jarl tumbling back into his big chair and sneered down at him afore he continued. “That said,” he paused to spit on the floor showing his contempt. “It’s not ye I’ve come for auld man. I’m told ye have a granddaughter and I’m in need of a wife.”
Gradually, those left alive all gathered to count their losses. Most dragged their feet to the path that had once led down to the solstice bonfire, and none made complaint that all their hard work had disappeared without celebration. Ainsel could tell that it would take a few years afore they faced a solstice again with the pleasure awakened by anticipation.
Rory was helping Finn, and every time her eyes rested on the Scot she was filled with the same warm sensation that had swamped her when Rory spoke of them becoming a family. If only she truly believed it might happen, but her own deceit loomed large at the back of her mind. Her grandfather might forgive her, but Rory… she couldnae see him ever believing in her again.
It took a wee while for everyone to reach the same place, with the whole helping support the injured. Ainsel’s heart sank, for she saw nae sign of Gilda. Tired, she dragged her heels as well as the weight of the shield on her back and the sword hanging from her belt. The battle had been won that didnae mean some invader frae Ireland or Orkney wasnae lurking waiting to strike her dead. Her fears didnae mean she would give up on searching for her friend.
When she reached Rory, she placed her hand on his forearm, felt the muscles tense at her touch and had a vision of Rory balanced on that arm as he took the weight of his body upon it while he thrust inside her. “Gilda isnae among the stragglers, I have to search for her.”
“Hold, I’ll go with ye. There’s nae sign of Calder either.” Rory nodded to Finn, saying, “We’ll be back after we’ve looked for Gilda and Calder.”
“I’ll bide here with the others. It’s not only the injured whau need to catch their breath. I’d expected to see Grandfather down here by now, but nae doubt he’s planning a celebration. Somebody will have told him we beat them.”
As they walked, Rory slid his arm under her shield and o’er her shoulder. She took what comfort from it that she could, knowing the same comfort and joy wouldnae lie in her future.
Lifting her arm, she pointed, telling him, “She and Calder were on this boat. The tide is far enough out we could probably wade o’er to it.”
“I’ll pull off my boots, they’re fine on the sand but seawater will ruin them and I only brought the one pair,” he said.
She crooked her eyebrows at him, “So ye didnae plan on staying long?”
“I didnae even plan on coming here; my father forbade me. It was Calder and Ghillie that gathered up my possessions and put them on a horse. They gathered me up this same way while I was dreaming of the Gathering.” To say she was surprised was unquestionable
and it must have showed on her face for he was driven to explain. “My father isnae an ogre, but after I returned last year, I brooded for a while—miserable my mother called it. Unlike me, she and my father have bad memories of Caithness, she would ne’er return.”
He said nae more and Ainsel didnae like to push. In any case, he had removed his boots and stockings so she quickly shed her shoes and began toward the boat, her toes squishing in the wet sand then shallow water covered her to the ankles. Suddenly Rory was in front of her, one hand on the rope ladder the other held out to her.
She heard Gilda’s sobs the moment her legs took her o’er the wooden side into the belly of the boat. Gilda crouched near the bow amidst dead bodies and splintered oars coated with blood. Rory leapt passed her, turning the faces of dead men, searching for Calder. Ainsel reached for Gilda, pulled her up into her shaking arms, “Hush now, hush, Gilda. Are ye hurt? What happened here, and where’s Calder?” Ainsel soon discovered that speaking Gilda’s lover’s name sent her friend into a torrent of hysterical sobs.
“He’s not amongst the dead,” said Rory as he stood glaring down at them. She wanted to snap back at him then remembered that Calder was probably as precious to him as Gilda was to her. “I cannae get an answer frae her; she willnae stop crying.”
He hunkered down beside them and pulled Gilda from her arms. Instead he gripped her by the shoulders and in a firm nae nonsense voice asked, “Where is Calder, Gilda?”
Her friend’s tears continued to flow and, watching, Ainsel felt water as salty as the sea well up in her eyes as she watched, and Rory’s grim mien didnae help as he questioned Gilda again, softer this time, “Where is he lass? What happened to him?”
Gilda sniffed a time or two then wiped her nose on her sleeve as if she were still a bairn. “He’s gone—dead. We were fending off the Irish ship with oars—Calder’s notion—for the other boat was ablaze. The Irish werenae o’er happy about that, they kept trying to leap onto our boat, but Calder would have none of it. The oars began to break, snapping, splintering and still the Irish kept coming, although Calder and the others sent a few o’er board with a blade betwixt their ribs … and then it happened to Calder. I saw it. He was dragging his sword out of an Irishman whau was falling into the sea when another one stabbed Calder high on the back of his ribs and he followed him down into tide. I found a rope and looked in the water for him at the other side of the boat since the tide was going out.”
Chieftain's Rebel Page 15
